The Antarcticia Affair
by WendieZ
Summary: Undercover,Illya flies to Antarctica with a Section 8 scientist to upgrade the UNCLE station's monitoring equipment. The real mission: find the THRUSH infiltrator among the scientists who has been leaking important information.
1. Act I: I never leave home without it

**The Antarctica Affair**

**By WendieZ**

_Author's comments: There will be those reading who may be disappointed by the way I handled certain scenes in this affair. I tend to adhere to the "Hitchcock-ian" view of story-telling. Remembering that the famous "shower" scene in __Psycho__ showed no nudity or actual "stabbing" of the body, yet, in my opinion, was one of the most violent scenes ever filmed. And it was because our imaginations provided the substance suggested by the film. Feel free to imagine as much substance as you like from my suggestions—and as always, thanks for reading._

**Prologue**

Illya Kuryakin awoke with a gasp. Grimacing, he pressed his left forearm against the broken ribs on the same side of his chest while he held his breath to ease their biting pain. As his gaze circumvented the room from his location, seated with his back against a fallen table on the recreation room floor, he realized that he must have passed out.

In front of him, a mere ten feet from where he sat, a female body lay sprawled on the floor, her blood pooled under her, clotting into a burgundy puddle. Illya looked down at his own body, slouched against the tabletop, his legs splayed in front of him. There was a ragged hole in the fabric of his black jeans with a darker stain surrounding the hole and a slowly-widening bright red spill on the floor under his right leg. His Special rested on the floor beside his hip, his hand closed loosely around the butt. He gazed curiously at the body that stared back at him with unseeing eyes and felt a twinge of sorrow, but his mind was too muddled from pain and blood loss to remember exactly how she had come to be in this state.

A footfall to his right caught his attention and raising his weapon, he looked up into the face of Dr. Lester Milton. "So, Mr. Kuryakin_. _It looks like Waverly's pet _Russkie_ has really put his foot into it _this _time—"

**Act 1: "I never leave home without it."**

_Nine days earlier, UNCLE Headquarters, New York_

"I can't believe it!" Napoleon Solo exclaimed. The handsome dark-haired agent sat across the commissary table from Illya Kuryakin, his friend and partner of many years, his mouth open in utter amazement. "You actually _volunteered_ to go down to the outpost in Antarctica? What in God's Name possessed you to do a thing like that? If you needed a vacation or some time off, why didn't you just tell me? And right before Christmas yet!"

"Well, I'm telling you now, and it has nothing to do with a vacation or time off. Dr. Pinchot in Section Eight and I have been working on some modifications to our satellite-monitoring equipment and he asked me to accompany him down there to upgrade the system. That'll give you time to get your Christmas shopping done without badgering me to go along with you to scour the stores for exactly the right scarf for your sister."

"I thought you liked the stores with all the lights and decorations."

"It was a novelty my first year in America. It was picturesque for a few years after. Now, it's just an unpleasant reminder that I'm really a socialist at heart, living in an incredibly capitalistic society. It long ago lost whatever meaning it had, if it even had a meaning to begin with and I'd just as soon be out-of-town."

"Antarctica is a little extreme, don't you think?"

"You're welcome to come along if you like. You can hold the toolbox."

"_No_, thank you. I spent a month there once early in my career when I pissed off the Old Man about something I did on a mission. I am _not_ making that mistake again."

"Yes, I imagine your social life suffered greatly being stuck there for that long."

"You have no idea. And to think there are people who actually _like_ being down there."

"It happens to be late spring in Antarctica. Dr. Pinchot and I will be able to get a lot of outdoor work done. The sun shines twenty-four hours a day this time of year."

"Yeah, and you could work on your tan, too. Why, the temperature must be up to minus twenty."

"You can stop with the sarcasm, Napoleon. It's a perfect time for me to go. THRUSH, for a change, has been reasonably quiet, and I can put this time to productive use. It has to be done. I know you can't get along without me, but you're just going to have to find alternative company for a few weeks. Knowing you, I won't even be missed. You'll be fine."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. It takes a few days to get down there. Don't worry, I'll make sure I'm home by Christmas. I'll even bring you a souvenir from the South Pole."

"Great. What am I going to do with a block of ice?"

"Save it for New Year's Eve and we'll use it to chill the expensive vodka you got me for Christmas."

"Who told you I got you a bottle of vodka?"

"That's what you always get me."

"Well, that was last year. This year I got you something different, or I will have by Christmas."

"You really need not bother. I'm perfectly content with what I do have."

"And you need to stop being such a socialist and allow a friend to show that you're appreciated."

"A simple statement would convey the same message."

Solo let out a frustrated sigh. "Is there any way you can leave today? This conversation is becoming just a tad annoying."

Illya smiled apologetically. "You're really referring to my side of it. Sorry to give you such a hard time. I really do appreciate your gifts, even if they're somewhat spoiling."

"I enjoy spoiling my friends."

"Far be it for me to stifle your pleasure."

"Same here, my friend. I really believe you're looking forward to going down there."

"I've never been to Antarctica. I like new experiences."

"You just be careful down there. I don't want to get a report that you refused to wear your hat and mittens when you went out to play."

_Three days later at the UNCLE observation outpost on the continent of Antarctica_

The weather was a balmy _minus 3_0 degrees Fahrenheit when the plane touched down on the airstrip of NULL, the UNCLE outpost about two hundred miles inland from the Indian Ocean coastline, and well-away from any of the other outposts that dotted the barren, ice-covered continent. Officially, NULL, as its name implied, did not exist on any map, and the population of the station was minimal, ranging from ten, in the winter, to as many as twenty-five scientists and support staff in the summer. From its position, the station could monitor a multitude of international frequencies, as well as collect weather, tectonic, and atmospheric conditions from the entire globe via their state-of-the-art monitoring equipment. It would to be up to Dr. Pinchot in Section Eight and Illya Kuryakin to upgrade the system to beyond-state-of-the art.

The plane carried all the equipment they would need as well as four additional personnel as replacements for staff ending their tour of duty. Kuryakin climbed down the ladder from the plane and helped his colleague egress. The other four passengers began to unload the cargo while two members of the station placed the containers on a transport. Dr. Pinchot and Illya were greeted by the station's second-in-command, Gloria Banks.

After shaking Dr. Pinchot's hand, the tall-redhead smiled more widely at Kuryakin. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Kuryakin. Your dossier photograph doesn't do you justice."

A half-irked, half-embarrassed smile touched the Russian agent's lips. "Let's hope the rest of my dossier does, Miss Banks. " I'm sure any photograph of you is but a pale facsimile of the real thing."

Gloria's emerald eyes acknowledged the compliment. "And I was led to believe that your partner was the smooth-talking one. You certainly have a way with words. And it's Gloria."

"I'm more sparing with words than my partner is, but I'm certain I could offer a few more at dinner tonight, Gloria. Please call me Illya."

"It would be a pleasure, Illya. I'm looking forward to it. Why don't you and Dr. Pinchot follow me and I'll introduce you to the boss." She turned from them and began to walk towards the compound.

Dr. Pinchot looked down at Kuryakin. "You don't behave like that with the women in the labs."

Illya smirked. "The women in the labs apparently don't need the enticement that Miss Banks does. Besides, they love me for my mind." The two chuckled over Illya's little joke, and followed their host.

The two scientists were greeted by the commander of the station, Robin Baxter, an Australian member of UNCLE Section One.

"I didn't think UNCLE had any Section One people positioned this far from civilization," Illya commented.

The Australian grinned toothily and answered with a thick accent. "Actually, I asked this posting. Always been somewhat of a loner, and always hated the heat; hard to believe coming from an Aussie, eh? Well, it's quiet and laid-back here, and that suits me just fine. Besides, I get a special pleasure out of torturing the naughty Section Twos they send down here occasionally."

"How long have you been stationed here?"

"Ten years this month."

Kuryakin smiled. "Then I must extend greetings from my partner, Napoleon Solo. He mentioned spending a little time here."

"Solo—I remember him. Arrogant sort of chap, as I recall. We went round and round a few times."

"That sounds like Napoleon. I will be sure to tell him that he's fondly remembered."

"When you have some free time, I can give you some good stories."

"I would like that. It's always good to have a complete arsenal at one's disposal."

"Well, I'll let you lads unpack and check in with the doctor. We'll see you both at dinner."

"Excuse me, Mr. Baxter. Why would we need to check in with the doctor?"

"I keep forgetting how you Section Twos hate Medical. Just give the doc a run-down on any recent injuries, medications, and the like. You don't need a physical or anything. But he's going to want to monitor all the new people for problems with acclimation."

Dr. Pinchot shook his head. "Acclimation? I don't understand."

"There are several characteristics unique to very cold climates. First, the air is very dry. Secondly, the carbon dioxide levels here are lower than what you're probably used to and that's because all the water vapor and CO2 freeze out of the air.

"You can probably count on some headaches, earaches or nosebleeds. A lot of new people also lose their appetites or have trouble sleeping. And you'll probably drop a few pounds. The doctor wants to keep tabs on your weight, blood pressure and any discomforts you might experience."

"Yes," Illya agreed. "And just about the time we've adjusted, we'll be back on a plane to New York."

"Where no one fully adjusts," Robin Baxter finished with a laugh. "You can always stay."

"It's a kind offer, Mr. Baxter, but we'll have to decline. Napoleon would never forgive me if I resigned from Section Two for research in Antarctica." Kuryakin turned towards Dr. Pinchot. "If you don't mind, Carl, I need to have a private word or two with Mr. Baxter. I'll meet you in the doctor's office in a few minutes."

Dr. Pinchot nodded and went to the door. "This wouldn't be a ploy to accidently forget, now, would it, Illya?"

The blond-haired Russian smiled a small smile. "Cross my heart," he said innocently.

"I'll start looking for you if you're not there in fifteen minutes."

"There won't be a need for a search party, I promise."

Carl Pinchot seemed convinced and left the two men alone. The door had barely closed before Illya began to peruse the room, running a practiced eye over the walls and furniture.

Robin Baxter eyed him curiously. "What's going on?"

"In a moment, Mr. Baxter." After he had made the full perimeter of the room and stood once more where he had been before, he spoke again, though in a subdued voice. What kind of security do you use at the station? Your assistant didn't even ask to see our identification."

"We don't really use a security system. The logic is that you were vetted for the flight that brought you here. Otherwise, it's one hundred miles from the coastline and over three hundred miles from the nearest outpost. What, were you looking for bugs or something? Look, Mr. Kuryakin, we're pretty isolated here and we get to know each other rather well after the first few weeks."

"Your logic could work against you if you aren't careful."

"You gotta remember; nearly everyone here is a scientist, even me. I started out in Section Eight. We're doing research, not espionage. Even you are here under Section Eight orders."

"You're partially correct. I am here under the guise of upgrading equipment. In actuality, I'm looking for someone here who really is doing espionage. There is a leak emanating from this station and Mr. Waverly assigned me to find out who it is and stop them. No one else, not even Dr. Pinchot knows about this. Mr. Waverly has vouched for you personally, so therefore I am including you in this little covert operation."

"I'm grateful that you feel you can trust me. Tell me what you need."

"Initially, I am going to need access to everyone's file. I'll let you know what else I may need when I'm finished. It's important that you continue to do business as usual, so no one becomes suspicious."

"It's hard to believe that we have a spy in our midst."

"This person is obviously very good at covering their tracks, but you said yourself that you are scientists, not covert operatives. I _am_ a covert operative and I know what to look for. It's also fortunate that I am a scientist, too, for I have a legitimate scientific reason for being here. Don't worry, I'll find our little THRUSH infiltrator."

"You'd better get down to medical. Dr. Pinchot sounded very sincere about coming to get you."

"He knows my reputation well. I'll catch up with you after dinner, Mr. Baxter."

"We're not going to work well together if you keep calling me 'Mister'."

"Robin, then."

Baxter reached out with his right hand. " I look forward to working with you, Illya."

Kuryakin shook the hand warmly. "Likewise."

While Medical personnel were normally on a Section Two agent's list of people to avoid, Kuryakin had found in his career, several professionals worthy of friendly conversation as long as it was held on neutral ground, such as the commissary or a neighborhood bar. Fifteen seconds after meeting Lester Milton, the station's medical doctor, Illya had the man firmly ensconced at the top of his "avoid" list, unseating several THRUSH crazies who had been previously engraved there.

From the moment Dr. Milton laid eyes on the Russian agent, a cloud of acrimony emanated from the man that was impossible to ignore. With blatant disregard, the doctor turned his attention back to Dr. Pinchot and continued his conversation. "I'll need you to stop in each morning for a vitals check. If you experience any severe symptoms, I want to know about them."

"I hope I didn't miss anything important," Illya said casually.

"Your colleague can fill you in on the details."

"That will be fine. I am not currently recovering from any injuries or illnesses, nor am I taking any medications. Do you wish to take a blood pressure reading to serve as a baseline?"

"No," the doctor said tersely.

"Very well. Then I will see you tomorrow morning as instructed."

"Robin tends to be over-cautious when it comes to adjusting to the climate down here. Maybe had something to do with the fact that he went through three months of hell before he did. You're a Section Two; as far as I'm concerned, you can forget it."

"Well, that's a relief," Illya replied. "It's comforting to see that your hostility is just a matter of me being in Section Two."

"Don't flatter yourself, _Commie-rade_," Dr. Milton countered, deliberately mispronouncing the Russian word. "Everybody knows it's only because of Waverly that you're in UNCLE. How much you're passing along to your KGB friends is anybody's guess."

Illya was more than a little annoyed with the doctor's boorish attitude. "Your information is a little flawed, doctor. While it is true that Mr. Waverly recruited me, my former position was Russian Naval Intelligence or _Glenore Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye _(GRU), not KGB. The only information I pass along is what I am able to extract from THRUSH, or inadvertently give up under extreme duress. Truth is, I am not here as a representative of the Soviet Union or even UNCLE, Section Two, but as a colleague of Dr. Pinchot. And we are here to upgrade equipment. I would advise you not to make my presence here more than it is. Good afternoon, doctor." He turned on his heel and left the room.

Dr. Pinchot glared at the physician. "You have got to be one of the most ill-mannered people I have ever met, doctor. You should have asked him to stay and take off his shirt. He didn't get his scars passing information to the KGB, I can tell you that. You might want to get a copy of the UNCLE charter and see what he swore on his life to uphold." This time it was Carl Pinchot's turn to storm from the room.

When the door had shut, the doctor murmured. "Goddam Commie son-of-a-bitch!"

In their shared quarters, Dr. Pinchot railed about the reception from the station's doctor.

To his colleague's tirade, Illya only replied quietly: "I learned early on that even UNCLE personnel are not immune to political prejudices. I cannot change what my country ultimately does in the world any more than you can change yours, whether we agree with their actions or not. I think it's safe to generalize that the common people of a country are not its government. Our needs are much more basic." Illya looked up at Dr. Pinchot. "I've found that the best way to deal with narrow minds is to ignore them, for no argument will persuade them to widen their vision." He smiled slyly. "And if that doesn't work, I can always kill them."

"Section Two humor," Dr. Pinchot sighed. "You can thank your lucky stars that I know you don't really mean it."

"You just haven't been around me long enough to know better," Illya answered with a rare full grin. "If it's all right with you, I'm going to take a look about the place."

"I'll check the equipment and later we can go over the upgrade schedule with Mr. Baxter."

"Do you want to begin outside work tomorrow?"

"Considering that we may have some physical problems culminating in several days, I think we should get the strenuous work done while we're at our best."

"My thoughts exactly. We can afford to take a day off if the modifications are in place. Very good, then. I will see you at supper." The Russian closed the door behind him as he left. Only then, did Dr. Pinchot realize, that though the station was comfortably warm, his roommate still wore a medium weight jacket over his black turtleneck sweater, probably concealing that he was as fully-armed as any Section Two field agent on assignment.

Illya took a self-guided tour throughout the facility, getting a feel for the interaction of the personnel and locations of the various work stations. His observations were casual-appearing, but in reality he was scrutinizing every aspect of the station with the practiced eye of an experienced field agent who took nothing at face value because his life could and often did depend on it. Because he radiated an air of mild interest, the people at their stations regarded him informally and answered any questions without hesitation. The station's complement was mostly male, so there were fewer women to charm, but after the unpleasantness with the doctor earlier, he consciously adjusted his accent towards an Oxford inflection. He wanted as little attention drawn to himself as possible while he gleaned for clues.

The common area was three-quarters filled with personnel by the time he finished his "rounds". Though he had expected to sit with Dr. Pinchot for dinner, Gloria waved to him and pointed to a vacant space next to her. He caught Carl's attention on the opposite side of the room and raised his eyebrows in an apologetic expression while he tilted his head in the redhead's direction. Dr. Pinchot's answer was a knowing nod of the head. He knew Kuryakin's reputation in the New York office.

"So, were you able to find your way around the station?" Gloria asked as Illya sat in the chair beside her.

"Absolutely. I know how to find the bathroom, the recreation room and the back door, if I need it."

"What do you think of the place?"

"An efficient blend of form and function."

"Spoken like a true scientist."

"I hope so." The conversation was centering on small talk, but he could sense that it was about to change.

"But I read your dossier," Gloria said softly and Illya's hunch was correct.

"And—?" he replied just as softly.

"Are you packin'?" she said, her voice clearly advertising that the question was a double-entendre.

Illya smiled enigmatically. "I never leave home without it," he said in kind. "Perhaps I should ask you the same question?"

She matched his smile. "What you see is what you get."

"As a scientist, I would say that this might require more study."

"Biological study?"

"I'm a physicist, but I can adapt."

"I'm free after dinner."

"Sadly, I am not," he said, his smile dimming for a moment. "But I will be later this evening."

"Your place or mine?"

"I have a roommate."

"That's all right. I don't. One of the benefits of the job, so to speak." She rose from her seat. "Come and fill a plate."

Illya followed her to the table set neatly with hearty cold weather fare. Unfortunately, the end of the line was occupied by Dr. Milton, who, when he saw Gloria approach with Illya in tow, stepped out of the line and went back to his seat.

She watched him curiously. "What's his problem this time?"

The corners of Kuryakin's mouth turned up in amusement. "He doesn't care for Section Twos who drink vodka."

"Oh, yeah. Well, don't take offense. He doesn't like a lot of other people either."

"Friendly guy."

"Well, he's good at what he does. He just doesn't like being here."

"How long has that been?"

"About a year. I heard he pissed off some supervisor and they transferred him down here."

"He must have really gone out of his way to offend. I was under the assumption that disciplinary tours are less than three months. But if his personality is what you say it is, I can see him getting lost in the shuffle."

The pair filled their plates and returned to their seats. Illya addressed himself to his meal before Gloria had the chance to begin another conversation.

"Well, you certainly haven't lost your appetite yet," she observed.

"The provisions on the plane were rather sparse and it was a long flight from Perth."

"The cook doesn't like leftovers, so eat your fill while you still feel like eating."

Illya chuckled to himself and continued his meal.

After the staff had cleared away dinner and most of the personnel left for their quarters or the recreation room, Dr. Pinchot and Illya met with Robin Baxter to discuss plans for their outdoor work. The work schedule would run on forty-five minute shifts outside with another forty-five minutes inside to warm up. Their work would be monitored by a staff member at the airlock in case of emergency. There would be no more than four outdoor shifts. With the schedule outlined, Dr. Pinchot believed that they would be able to finish outside work in three days.

The details settled, Dr. Pinchot decided that he would spend the rest of the evening in the recreation room watching one of the movies that had been brought along on the plane with them. Kuryakin declined the invitation with the excuse that wanted some solitary time, but would join them later. Five minutes later, he was carrying a box of personnel files to his room to review during his "solitary time".

He laid the box on his cot and then made the same circuit of inspection as he had in the director's office. The only surveillance devices he found were the ones he had placed in the room before Dr. Pinchot had returned from the doctor's office. When he scanned their memories, a familiar figure appeared in the still images and that figure was busily searching the contents of the room. Kuryakin smiled with satisfaction. Sitting down on his cot, he found the personnel file belonging to their unwanted guest and began to read.


	2. Act II: I'm going to need a refresher

**The Antarctica Affair**

**Act II**: **"I'm going to need a refresher on the **_**Kama sutra**_**."**

It was well past midnight by the time Kuryakin finished the personnel files, and his roommate was still gone. He decided to return the files immediately, rather than wait until breakfast, to keep from rousing Dr. Pinchot's curiosity. The corridors appeared deserted, but Illya was still cautious. Light shown in the small windows, even at this hour, and he didn't want to draw attention to his late-night wonderings, though he could easily claim that he was not acclimated and couldn't sleep. It was just the excuse he needed when he was returning from his errand and came face-to-face with Gloria.

"I thought we had a date," she said with undertones of displeasure.

He feigned embarrassment. "I'm terribly sorry. I do not make it a habit of standing up a beautiful lady. I guess I shouldn't have taken your advice about the cook not liking leftovers quite so much to heart. When I got back to my room, I laid down for just a moment and I fell soundly asleep. I suppose I've been across too many time zones within the last three days." It was a plausible lie with elements of complete truth and Gloria nodded her head knowingly.

"So, since now you can't sleep, you were coming to find me and apologize."

"I thought I had better at least make the effort. I would like this to be a cordial stay."

"As it so happens, the movie was quite funny and I've laughed myself to the point of being wide awake."

"How fortuitous."

She slipped her arm through his and they began walking. "My thoughts exactly. Oh, and you're still packing, I see. Do you sleep with it, too?"

"Generally not this close, but it's always nearby, I assure you."

"I hope it won't mind being put on a shelf."

"We have an understanding."

She stopped at a closed door. "I've heard you drink vodka."

"I've been known to imbibe from time to time."

"If I get you drunk will you whisper some really dirty Russian to me?"

"Now, why would you want me to do that?"

"I like it when men talk dirty to me, it excites me."

"How will you know that what I'm saying is truly vulgar?"

She grinned as she opened the door. "Don't worry, I'll know." And she pulled him into the room. The door was not even completely closed before she had her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his and her open mouth engulfing his unprepared lips.

Illya was caught somewhat off-guard by her abrupt initiative and, for the moment, could do little more than allow her to attack his tongue with hers. He had to admit, she knew what she wanted and she aggressively pursued it . He wondered briefly, how many other men in the station had succumbed to her voracious charms, but then she began to seek out the more sensitive areas of his body and after that, he really didn't care.

"So, how much of what you said to me was truly vulgar?" Gloria asked, nestled comfortably under his left arm, her head on his shoulder. Her left hand lazily traced across the variety of scars scattered across his torso, occasionally raking her nails lightly over his bare skin. She was pleased at the slight trembling her ministrations elicited from him.

"All of it," the Russian breathed as he watched the changing patterns of light reflected by the faceted gems of the oddly unique cocktail ring on her left ring finger. She seemed to know exactly what areas of his body aroused him the most and precisely how to stroke him to unleash his baser male instincts. She was a seductress, and after his rational senses began to return from what had been one of the most all-encompassing coital events he had ever experienced, he was genuinely worried that the objectiveness he needed for this mission had been seriously compromised.

She propped herself up on one elbow and kissed him passionately. "Oh, Illya, you are so incredibly delicious, I could just eat you up."

"I think you already did," he murmured. He wished she would stop caressing his chest so he could clear his mind, though part of him ached for her to continue and move her hand downward. As if to read his mind, the fingertips inched their way below his navel and cuddled his genitals in a tender squeeze, flooding his brain with a sensory pleasure that made him gasp audibly.

"Ready for more?" she blew into his ear.

_No—_his mind screamed at him through a mist of rising passion. He grasped her face with both hands and pulled her mouth towards his. There were more carnal Russian utterances where he had gotten first ones, and he was determined to use them all.

His mind was still stumbling through the testosterone fog when he opened the door to his quarters three hours later and fell prone onto his bed.

"That must have been some date," a voice from the other cot said softly.

Illya groaned into his pillow. After a moment of silence, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "Not one word of this is to _ever_ reach Napoleon's ears. If I even _suspect _that you mentioned it to him, I will see that you are transferred to the bomb-defusing unit."

Carl Pinchot shook his head. "Sure, Illya, your secret is safe with me, but good God, this isn't like you, at all."

"This really wasn't what I had in mind. I thought, perhaps we'd talk for a while, then, maybe—"

"No talking, huh? She must have been something. What did she do to you?"

There was a heavy sigh from Kuryakin's side of the room. "What _didn't_ she do? She practically raped me, and I didn't think that was possible. After tonight, I'm going to need a refresher on the _Kama sutra._"

Carl chuckled. "You sound like you're what my mom used to call _twitter-pated_."

"Twitter-pated? I never heard of it. What language is that?"

"It's a made-up word from the Walt Disney movie, _Bambi_. Bambi falls in love with Faline and his friends say that he's giddy with love or twitter-pated.

"Ah, _vnye syebya ot radosti_, delirious with delight. _Bambi?_ I read_ Eine Lebensgeschichte aus dem Walde_, (by Felix Salton, 1929) but I don't recall that situation occurring in the book."

"I think you'll find that Disney has his own way of telling a story."

"These are the animated films he makes for children, correct? Napoleon talked me into seeing one of these movies soon after we became partners. They are not like the books from which they are taken, though they are very skillfully animated."

"So, how do you feel now?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you feel less 'twitter-pated'?"

"Do I—? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, actually, I do. But I'm not sure why."

"I got your mind off of it. Are you sure she didn't drug you somehow?"

Kuryakin considered. "I suppose she could have. She had some excellent vodka."

There was a moment of silence, and then Dr. Pinchot spoke again, his tone much more serious. "What's really going on here, Illya?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Mr. Waverly suggested to me to bring you along on this. I was going to bring Richardson originally."

"You and I developed this system. It makes sense that I should help with the upgrade."

"But it doesn't take both of us to do the on-site work."

"Evidently, Mr. Waverly thinks differently."

"It's the first time he's ever made a suggestion about something like this."

"He's within his rights to do so. He must have thought it important for both of us to come."

"I'm sure he did, but I'm beginning to think you're here for another reason that has nothing to do with upgrades. For one thing, you brought your Special along."

"You've never struck me as the suspicious type, Carl. I'm afraid you're seeing something that isn't there. And I always have my Special with me. I never know when it might be needed."

"And we both know that you're an expert at the art of deception."

"You flatter me. Are you now insinuating that you believe I'm lying to you?"

"In a word, yes."

"And if I told you that my reasons for being here were none of your concern, would you feel the explanation adequate?"

"I would say that I'm concerned that you're spying on our own people."

"And I would have to say that your concern is noted, but not relevant."

"English is what, your fourth or fifth language?"

"What's your point, Carl?"

"I was about to compliment you on your manipulation of the English language."

"I would sincerely like to compliment you, as well, on your ability to let sleeping dogs lie."

Carl Pinchot realized that he was not going to get a direct answer out of the Russian. "Very well, Illya. I'll play your little game, but I do want you to know that I will help any way I can."

"I appreciate the offer. Right now, I would like to get a few hours of sleep before we have to venture out into Antarctic weather."

The outdoor work was made more difficult by an insurgence of the prevailing winds. Light, powdery snow swirled across the compound, bringing visibility to near zero and plummeting an already bitterly cold air temperature. The new electronic fittings had to be installed without the cumbersome gloves that kept their fingers from freezing, so shifts were reduced to fifteen minutes during which the bare-handed labor was split while the other did his best to shelter the worker from the brunt of the wind. Even with these modifications, by early afternoon, both men were experiencing the beginnings of frostbite and were ordered to remain inside.

Frustrated at the setback, Dr. Pinchot and Illya sat opposite in the common room, thawing their frigid hands in bowls of lukewarm water. It was a painful experience for, as the tissue warmed, it protested its indignity at being mistreated with searing waves of pain. Furthermore, both men were nursing headaches from the climate change, and the climate itself.

"I've been in the West too long," Kuryakin complained softly. "I can't take the cold like I used to. Siberian temperatures are within this range in some of the northern regions."

"Spent a lot of time in Siberia, did you?" Whenever Illya offered up a tidbit of personal information, it generated great interest.

"Not really. I served in a submarine under the ice above the Arctic Circle, but that hardly counts."

"Well, you must have come up for air at some point. Wasn't that when you set fire to the igloo?"

"Where did you hear that fantastical tale?"

Carl shrugged. "You know. Around."

"Office gossip. Carl, you're a scientist."

"So, is the story true?"

"I'm afraid the facts have been terribly embellished. Besides, one can not burn ice."

"And you're not going to tell me the real story."

Kuryakin cleared his throat, self-consciously. "Well, it wasn't a real igloo and I got into somewhat of a sticky situation with some of my shipmates and my commanding officer because of it. It was good that I was at the end of my tour, or I might not have lived to tell the tale. The six weeks following the incident were hell and I found myself the unhappy victim of a number of cruel practical jokes. That's as much as I'd like to bore you with."

"I'm sorry to dredge up an unpleasant memory."

Illya chuckled. "_Ja iz__ Sovyetskiy Soyooz_!—they're _supposed_ to be unpleasant." When his companion reacted to his sarcastic joke with a sympathetic expression, he shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry. I've misspoken. Must be the headache. Please, forget what you've just heard." He rose.

"Illya—"

"It's nothing. Forget it," he said and walked away. The tone of voice made it clear it was not a request. He was at the door of his room, ready to enter, when Gloria walked up to him.

"I had a good time last night," she said softly.

"It was certainly a night I'll remember for a long time."

"We could play again tonight if you're up to it."

"Sorry, but I'm going to need a rain check. Last night's revelry topped by his morning's snowball fight took its toll. I plan to spend the rest of the afternoon nursing a headache—alone."

"I could massage your forehead for you."

A hint of a smile touched the Russian's lips. "Why do I suspect that my forehead is the _last_ thing you want to massage right now?"

"I've never met anyone like you. You excite me so much."

"And I think you need to find a way to control that over-zealous libido you have. We all have our work to do here."

"You're just one of those men who are afraid of women who know what they want and take the initiative. I understand that."

"And you are free to do so; just as I am as free to decline your offer for this evening. I'm sure there is at least one other man in the station who can accommodate you tonight. Now, if you don't mind, and even if you do—I have an appointment with my pillow." He opened the door to his room and went in, closing it in her face. What had been green eyes that sparkled moments before, were now darkened, smoldering with anger. How dare he refuse her! She vowed that the next time he came to her, and there _would_ be a next time, she would increase the dosage of the nerve stimulant she had injected into him before without his notice. He wouldn't refuse her then, just like many of the other men under her gentle control in the station.

After checking his surveillance devices in the room, and finding nothing, Kuryakin lay down on his bunk, and pulled a brass-colored box out from under the mattress. The box looked like a fancy cigarette case, but was, in reality, a communicator with the capacity of transmitting and receiving to and from any spot on earth with the help of the growing number of communications satellites encircling the globe. This communicator, however, also had the capacity to "hitch a ride" on other frequencies already being transmitted and thus escape being detected by monitoring equipment very much like the devices on the station.

He set the frequency and spoke into the box. "Open Channel Zed, Priority One, and scramble."

A few moments later, Alexander Waverly's voice answered. "What do you have to report, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Primary objective: Progressing. I have several possible suspects. Equipment upgrades proceeding, but we've had some unexpected weather difficulties. And I have an inquisitive electrical engineer asking pointed questions and not very receptive to my answers. He is, however, willing to be supportive."

"The headquarters at Perth can be ready at a moment's notice to provide assistance. Be aware that there is a six hour lead-time before that assistance arrives. Don't play it too close to the wire."

"Understood. Please give my regards to Mr. Solo."

"He left this morning for Australia. Insisted he wanted to head up your reinforcement team."

"I see. I think I may have ruffled his feathers a little by not making him privy to this assignment, though I did extend an invitation."

"I'm curious as to how he managed to find out about it."

Illya smiled fondly at the thought. "He _is_ very resourceful."

"Quite so. This will be the last communication we will have regarding this assignment. Further communications should be directed to Perth."

"Understood, sir. I think I'll take Dr. Pinchot's offer of assistance. The situation may change rapidly to the point where I will not be able to make contact myself."

"What do you suggest?"

"A code word by which Perth will know that the contact person is genuine and is giving the order to proceed."

"I assume you already have one in mind, Mr. Kuryakin."

Kuryakin chuckled to himself. "As a matter of fact, I do. The word is twitter-pated."

There was a moment of silence. Then, the Section One head responded. "Understood. I'll see that this gets to the proper channels."

"Thank you, sir. Kuryakin, out." Illya slid the communications device back into its case, an amused grin on his face. He could imagine the raised eyebrows and chuckles his choice was bound to make as it traveled to its destination. He returned the brass box to its place under his mattress and then settled down for a well-earned nap.

Illya awoke when Dr. Pinchot returned to the room, but made no outward sign. He listened to the scientist move about the room, then heard the sound of a weight settling on the cot across the room. "How's your headache?" the Russian said quietly.

"Oh," Carl said, "you're awake. I was trying not to do that."

"I sleep lightly," Kuryakin replied with his eyes still closed.

"Requirement for Section Two, huh?"

"Something like that. So, how's the weather treating you?"

"Still have the headache, but not as bad. How about you?"

"The same." He paused a moment to phrase his request properly. "Carl, I think I'm going to have to take you up on your offer."

"My offer?"

"Yes, regarding a matter we discussed last night."

"As I recall, Illya, it wasn't much of a discussion. I asked questions and you didn't answer them."

"Well, technically, I did. I just didn't give you the answers you were looking for. However, I've given it some thought and I believe I'm going to need you to do one small thing for me."

"So, there _is_ more to this than you're telling."

Illya sat up on the cot and faced his roommate. "And I'm not telling now. You said you would be willing to help."

"Yes, tell me what you want me to do."

Illya stood up. "Under my mattress is a brass cigarette case. I'm sure you've seen one of those before."

"Sure. George Dennel was always popping in with a new gadget to show off."

"You will need to set it to Channel D, and ask for a relay to Perth, Priority and scramble."

Carl nodded, but he was more than a little worried about what must have prompted Kuryakin to entrust him with this information.

"The message is to be one word only. And that word is what we talked about before you started to interrogate me. Do you understand?"

It was a moment before the Section Eight engineer made the connection, after which he chuckled. "You're kidding."

Kuryakin looked at him, his blue eyes intense. "Carl, I need to know now if you're up to this."

"You're not kidding—"

"No, I'm quite serious and I suspect when things start to happen, they will happen very quickly. I will be relying on you to make that call."

"How will I know when to send it?"

"When I say the phrase, 'It looks like Napoleon is going to have to drink my Christmas present alone this year'."

"He's getting you Vodka _again_ this year?"

Illya looked at Carl quizzically for a moment, then grinned broadly. "You're going to do just fine, my friend. Just keep up that attitude."

"When do you think this is going to happen?"

"I don't plan to start anything until after we have that outdoor work completed. Let's keep up appearances for a little while longer. Oh, and one other thing. I'd like to keep my back- up gun with you, just in case."

"You mean in my suitcase?"

"No, I mean on your person. I have it in a calf holster that should do the trick. You'll need to keep it with you all the time, all right?"

"How many weapons are you carrying?"

"That's 'need to know' and you don't. If I'm searched, I want to have something in reserve that I can count on." Kuryakin sat down on the edge of Carl's' bunk and lifted his trouser leg. Strapped to his calf, was a small revolver in a holster, which he loosened and slid over his foot. How you wear it is up to you; in your case, I should think comfort would be the most important."

"I'll never be comfortable wearing a gun."

"It's amazing how quickly you can become used to it. Just don't get any heroic ideas. You're a hiding place, not a back-up. Are we clear?"

"You can count on me, Illya."

"For both our sakes, Carl, I will be."

The wind had died down considerably by the next morning, and Dr. Pinchot was determined to make up the lost time. Both he and Kuryakin had awakened with the same headaches they took to bed with them, but pain now was more annoying than uncomfortable and aspirin seemed to relieve it somewhat. As soon as they had eaten breakfast, the two men donned their arctic outerwear and headed for the signal dishes. The work was progressing better than they expected, so they decided to put off eating lunch in favor of finishing by late afternoon. Weary, cold and hungry, they put the last of the new components in place and trudged back to the station's airlock.

"Am I glad that's done with!" Carl Pinchot exclaimed, pulling off his hat. "I'm seriously considering a transfer to California or Hawaii. God, I hate the cold!"

"New York will seem like California after this," Kuryakin added. "I hope the cook doesn't mind me raiding his kitchen a little early. I could eat a polar bear."

"Polar bears are in the arctic, Illya. I would have thought you'd know that."

"I do, but I'm afraid a single penguin isn't going to satisfy my stomach's rumblings."

The cook, however, was unsympathetic the pleadings of Illya's stomach and told them they would have to wait the forty-five minutes until he served dinner. Carl decided it was a good time for a hot shower.

Illya followed him back to the room, grumbling. "He wouldn't even give us the cold leftovers from lunch. _Cossack_! I've shot people for less!"

Carl turned around. "Here," he said, lobbing an object at the Russian, "I stole you an apple to hold you over."

Illya caught it and took a large bite of it in one smooth motion. "Thanks, Carl," he mumbling around the chewing. "I owe you one."

"I saw the steam coming out of your ears while the cook was yelling at us to leave. I thought you might take a bite out of him."

"I considered it." He opened the door to their room and quickly scrutinized the living area. "I believe we've had a guest while we were out." He allowed Carl to pass him and shut the door.

"Are you sure?" Carl was concerned.

"Reasonably. I'll check my little sentries."

"You mean you've got the room bugged?"

"As a precaution. Personally, if someone has been going through my personal space, I'd like to know about it, and know who has been so inquisitive." He brought up the stills of their second intrusion. "Well, that's interesting. This is not the same person who visited us before."

"That's Gloria. What could she be looking for?"

"Perhaps nothing. She might be leaving something behind." They continued to scan the stills. "Ah, and there it is. She planted something at the head of your cot." Kuryakin leaned over the metal headboard and produced a small device with a lead to a pressure sensing device.

"What is it?"

"I can't be certain without taking it apart, but I'm guessing that she would like to make sure you to have a very long and peaceful sleep tonight."

"Knock-out gas? Why?"

"The only reason I could venture is that she doesn't want you to know what time I will be getting back to the room tonight. I think she has plans for the two of us."

Carl sighed. "Looks like you'll be having all the fun tonight, while I just spend it in oblivion."

"If it will make you feel better, her plans are going be altered somewhat. I was planning to disarm this little device. The brand of sleeping potion in it carries a nasty hang-over in the morning. I'm sure you can feign a sound sleep and an excruciating headache tomorrow morning, can't you?"

"What about you?"

"The more I thought about my liaison with Gloria, the more I realized that she must have used some kind of nerve stimulant on me. I know how my body reacts sexually and what I was experiencing was not the norm for me."

Carl grinned. "I wouldn't mind trading places with you tonight. I could stand a little over-stimulation."

"She has an agenda, Carl. And if my hunch is correct, she's not who she claims to be. I need tonight to make sure. If I'm wrong, by all means, take your shot." He looked up as the chimes rang, signaling dinner was ready. Illya put the disarmed sleep gas dispenser back on the headboard of Carl's bed. Then, he looked up at his roommate. "It's Showtime," he said, grinning wolfishly.


	3. Act III: A Truly Amazing Man

**Antarctica Affair**

**Act III: "A truly amazing man."**

Dr. Pinchot and Illya sauntered to the common area as if they hadn't a care in the world except for what might be on the menu for dinner. The Russian agent did not actively search the room for Gloria, but caught a glimpse of her red tresses near the head of the line. He was going to let her make the first move unless she ignored him during dinner. Then, he would go hunting for her after dinner.

She did not disappoint. Under the guise of refilling her coffee cup, she met him as he was carrying his plate towards the table where Robin Baxter was seated. "Hi, Illya," she said as she skillfully blocked his way.

"Hello, Gloria." He acted as though he was attempting to move around her to see if she would counter. Again, she moved to stand in front of him.

"Is this your subtle way of asking me to join you for dinner?"

"I can be less subtle if you prefer."

"Yes, I know and I would very much enjoy having dinner with you." He followed her to her seat and sat down beside her. "I thought you might still be angry at me for not taking you up on your offer last night."

"I was. That was very rude of you."

"I'm afraid I'm just a little too old-fashioned and I like pursuing instead of being pursued."

"I was too forward for you then?"

"A little," Illya said, and then a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps."

"Well, they're going to show another movie tonight."

"I see. So, if I was to ask you to accompany me, my male ego would then be satisfied?"

She smiled. "Something like that."

"Let's see if it works. Gloria, would you go with me to the movie tonight?"

Gloria laughed out loud and laid her head on his shoulder. "Oh, Illya, I thought you'd never ask me!"

Kuryakin found her dramatic flair amusing and grinned. But, while he was eating his dinner, he caught himself comparing her sexual prowess to that of his partner, and then, to another known to both of them. _Oh, yes, Gloria, you are a lot like her_, he reflected, _and here I am encouraging you to seduce me again—just like Napoleon!_ _And it's only because I suspect you of being the enemy._ _Illya Nickovetch, you're going to have a lot to live down on this assignment_

Kuryakin was really enjoying the movie: Clint Eastwood's current "spaghetti Western" entitled, _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly._ When he first came to the United States, he knew very little about the so-called American Wild West culture, and he found the stories fascinating. Almost obsessively, he devoured the fiction, from Zane Grey to Louis L'Amour, and historical non-fiction about men like Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, and the great Indian chiefs.

His job left him little time to indulge in the cinema, and his frugal conscience pressured him towards the arts: the symphony or opera, when he did have a rare Saturday evening, or to museum exhibits when free time was short. But, he secretly loved the cinema.

His date for tonight, however, was bored by the male tone of the movie. While the first reel was being changed, she hugged his arm and whispered in his ear: "This is the most boring movie I've ever seen. Let's go back to my room and talk."

"Boring? How can you say that? It has Clint Eastwood. I thought all the women adored him."

"I hate Westerns. They're all alike. Mindless."

"No, they're not. What could be mindless about cowboys, and horses, and quick-draw showdowns? Westerns are fascinating."

"If I have to sit through three more reels of this, I am going to scream."

Kuryakin was disappointed, but remembered that uncovering Gloria's agenda was the purpose of tonight's alleged date. "All right, we'll leave, but we'll talk somewhere else than in your room." They stood up and were half-way to the door when he spied an acoustic guitar set upright against the wall. He made a short detour to grab the instrument and allowed Gloria to pull him from the room just as the second reel came to life on the screen. "Gloria, are you sure?" was all he could say before she had successfully extricated him from the room.

Gloria led her conquest to the dining area. "I'll bet there's some coffee." She poured two cups while he sat on a chair and tuned the strings of the guitar. "You are full of surprises," she said.

He strummed the strings with a light touch and smiled knowingly. "I might say the same about you." The strumming evolved into a somber melody that was undeniably Slavic.

"Is that a Russian song?"

He shook his head. "Ukrainian lullaby._Oy Khodyt Son Kolo Vikon__. _I can remember hearing it as a child."

"What does it mean?" she asked, genuinely interested.

"Let me see," he said thoughtfully. "Yes. It's _A Dream Passes by the Windows_. It has been said that George Gershwin based one of the arias from his opera, _Porgy and Bess,_ on this lullaby."

"Which aria was it?"

He strummed a new set of chords to segue into the jazz aria's intro, and sang softly in a low tenor voice: "Summertime—and the livin' is easy—"

Gloria's mouth opened in amazement as she watched him allow himself to become immersed in the haunting melody and lyrics. It seemed odd to hear this fair-haired, pale-skinned East European Slav sing about cotton, and "fish jumpin'", and, yet, the words rolled off his tongue, as if he'd been born into the culture he was singing about. _A truly amazing man_, she thought. It was going to make what she had to do so much harder than she ever thought it would be.

Time passed quickly for the pair as they sang, and laughed, and enjoyed the other's company. Before they realized it, the movie in the recreation room had ended and the group was coming to the dining room for coffee and a few, or more, rounds of poker. Illya put the guitar aside and stood up. "I think this is where we came in," he said softy, his lips by her ear.

Gloria looked up at him, smiling. "My room, then?"

"You're the one without the roommate." He followed her to the doorway, catching Dr. Pinchot's notice as he did. A quick nod between them confirmed that the plan was in motion.

This evening, Illya made it a point to have her precede him into the room as he kept his attention on her hands and the ring on her left ring finger, in particular. She waited until he was completely in the room and then pushed him and the door until they both had moved as far as they could. Her hands rested on his shoulders, ready to encircle his neck, but before she could begin to slide them upward, he grasped her wrists gently, though firmly.

"What's the matter?" Her voice sounded genuinely surprised.

"Indulge me for a moment, please." And he deftly slid the ring from her finger. "This will not be necessary." She gave him a puzzled look, so he elucidated. "We won't be needing your potions tonight, _ma cherie._ You underestimate yourself if you think you must use enhancements to arouse my interest, and you most certainly insult my ability to respond. Besides, this little trick reminds me too much someone else." He dropped the ring to the floor and kicked it under the bed with the outside of his foot.

"What makes you think I used something on you the last time?" she asked, indignant.

"I usually have my wits about me even if I'm in the middle of intense coital stimulation. The other night was extremely sensual, but my memory of it seems more like a dream than reality." He smiled brazenly. "If I'm going to be pleasured by a lady, I'd at least like to remember the experience and reciprocate on the favor." He still held her wrists and brought the left one up to his lips, which began to nibble gently at the base of her thumb.

Her own lips parted in surprise at the gesture, but she did not pull away. She lifted her own right arm to meet the other, and the man holding her wrists obliged by nuzzling that palm as well. He released her hands to cup her face and guide her to his waiting lips. She made a small cooing moan in response, while at the same time, her right hand slipped into her pocket. It had to be now, she thought, or she'd never be able to do it.

She grasped the small plastic cylinder and squeezed it to release its sharp point. He was still immersed in the kiss when she stabbed the point into the carotid artery of his neck. He gasped from the bite of the needle, pulling back, and stared at her in utter astonishment while his hand went instinctively to the spot. Suddenly, he needed the door at his back to keep standing.

Gloria took a step backwards. "I'm afraid that's not the way it works, Illya darling, but I do appreciate the compliment about emulating my mentor."

It was becoming harder to think, even as he fought it the growing fuzziness in his brain.

"Angelique—!" he whispered, then blurted out a vile Russian vulgarity.

She grinned and lifted her shoulders to hug her arms. "Ooo, what a mouth you have! Was that for her or for me?"

His limbs were beginning to tremble with the effort of trying to will them to bear his weight. "There's plenty more where that came from," he said with effort. It was not going to be long before the door failed to support him.

"I want you to know before the drug takes full affect that your memory of tonight is going to be pretty much shit. Oh, it might come back to you later, but not when it'll do you any good."

Illya made a sound in his throat as his knees buckled. His arms were unable to break his fall, and he flopped down to the floor like a string-less marionette.

Gloria rolled him onto his back and knelt at his side. "I'll see that you get home in one piece; you know, for old times' sake and for all we meant to each other. We're breaking up now, Illya, but I hope we can still be friends.'

Kuryakin's face twisted into grimace as he made one last effort to ward off the impending unconsciousness, but he had no will remaining. His eyes rolled under half-closed lids and his body relaxed, releasing a heavy sigh.

"Pleasant dreams," Gloria whispered. She reached under the bed to retrieve her ring. Then she sat down on her bed and pulled a small stuffed penguin from under her pillow. She squeezed the two plastic eyes and spoke. "Les, this is Gloria. I have some garbage we need disposed of. Make sure nobody sees you." There was a one word affirmative answer, and she threw the stuffed animal back onto her bed. She stretched the full length of the cot and looked down at the unconscious Russian.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at her door. She opened it enough to verify the knocker's identity and then pulled it open.

"I thought you were sweet on the little _Russkie_," her visitor said.

"He was afraid of commitment," she answered matter-of-factly. "Just like all you men. Let's take him back to his room."

"What about his roommate, Pinchot?"

"He should be gassed asleep by now. I didn't see him sitting with the poker players. He must have gone back to the room. Are they still playing poker?"

"They just got started. We shouldn't have any trouble getting Kuryakin to his room." Lester Milton bent down and lifted an arm. "He's heavier than he looks."

"He's all muscle," Gloria said half-tauntingly. _Isn't he ever_—she thought as a small chill trickled down her back. He had been one hell of a lay. She reached down to grasp Kuryakin's other arm. "Oh, wait a second." She grabbed the bottle of vodka from her night table and tucked it into her waistband. "He'll need some cologne," she explained with a sardonic smile. "Let's get lover-boy back to his room. I feel lucky tonight—I think I'll play a little poker after we're done."

"I thought maybe you'd like play a little 'doctor'," Dr. Milton said suggestively.

"Sorry, Les. Once you've had Russian delight, it's hard to go back to the commonplace."

Lester dropped Illya's arm and glared at her. "Listen, you sick bitch! I've had enough of your put-downs. I do all the shit work for you and all I get is a kick in the balls from you."

"And I'm the one who's taking all the risk so you can play it safe. It's little wonder why you got sent here. You've got all the charm of the bubonic plague."

"I'm the one who mixes up your little concoctions. Don't forget that."

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Les, and help me get Kuryakin to his room."

With the scowl of someone who had just come out second best again, Dr. Milton picked up the arm and hoisted Illya's dead weight so where they could sling his arms across their shoulders. Then, supporting the body at the waist, they "walked" the unconscious agent back to his room.

Carl Pinchot heard the doorknob turning and tensed. He was not at all sure he wanted to know who was coming into the room, but he was determined to "play drugged" as Illya had requested. He hoped to God that it was his roommate returning. A large shape entered the room and deposited a smaller shape onto the bed. He heard the sound of liquid splashing, and then smelled alcohol. _This is not good_, he thought.

A voice whispered, "You get out of here. I'll wait for a second before I leave. I want to get my sleep gas dispenser." The door closed and a single shape moved towards the head of his bed, retrieved the device and backed away. "And just in case you're still awake, Dr. Pinchot," Gloria said, and fired a sleep dart into the body on the bed.

Dr. Pinchot gasped a small moan, succumbing rapidly to the fast-acting dart. Gloria pocketed the gas device and closed the door quietly as she left. She was turning to go to the dining room when she saw Robin Baxter approach her.

"Gloria," he said in surprise.

"Oh, Robin," she replied, starting a little from the unexpected meeting. "I had to help Illya get back to his room. Got a little carried away with my vodka." She lifted the bottle by the neck. "He wouldn't come with me it I didn't bring it along."

"You and he really seemed to hit it off," the station director said with a touch of annoyance.

"Oh, Robin, it's not what you think at all. You'll always be my first lover. Illya was just a little fling, you know. He's Russian, exotic, like that. But, he can't hold a candle to my little koala bear, you know that." She ran her left hand down the side of his face and kissed him. At the same time, she pricked him with her ring. A moment later, they were walking down the hallway to his room, their arms encircling each other's waists.

Neither Illya nor Dr. Pinchot heard the insistent pounding on their door, and stirred only when those "pounding" entered the room and physically woke them. Carl's' reaction was a groan of pain from a headache he was far from faking. The visitors had not been warned about the danger of waking a Section Two agent by manhandling and were unprepared when Kuryakin attacked; even though he was unaware of where he was and whom he was fighting. It took three men to hold him while Gloria tried to reach his consciousness.

Illya opened his eyes, surprised to see Gloria cupping his face and concern in her eyes. Then, he realized where he was. "How—?" He looked at the men holding him with confusion. What is it?"

"Oh, Illya, it's awful! Robin was murdered in his room last night—"

Dr. Pinchot's mind had cleared somewhat and he sat up. "My God! Do you know who did it?"

Gloria stood up. "Everybody's been accounted for," she said softly, "except—" She sighed with resolve to continue. "—you and Illya."

Kuryakin shook off the grasps of the men that were holding him. "That's ridiculous. Neither of us have a reason to do such a thing. I want to see the body." Though he felt like he had just been beaten and thoroughly tortured, he stumbled to the door and forced his legs to propel him down the hallway to the Director's room. The body lay on the floor under a sheet that had been pulled from the bed, and Dr. Milton was just standing.

"How was he killed?" Illya said without looking at the doctor.

"You tell me," was the acrid reply. "It should be apparent to you."

The Russian pulled back the sheet to reveal the body lying prone on the floor. There was no blood or bruises that he could see, so he knelt down for a closer inspection. The body was nearing complete _rigor mortis_, and had voided both bladder and bowels. Otherwise, there was nothing he could point to as the cause of death, except—He noticed an inconsistency in the neck area, and reached down to feel it.

"Find anything familiar?" Dr. Milton asked sternly. "You should."

"It appears that he has a classic subluxation of one of his cervical vertebrae, which must have severed the spinal cord."

"A broken neck."

"Yes."

"How does something like that happen, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I assume you are not referring to accidental occurrences," Illya replied stiffly.

"You know damn well what I'm referring to."

"It takes special knowledge and skills to perform this tactic correctly in order to achieve the desired results."

"Well put. And who in UNCLE might have the knowledge and skills?"

"I think I can say with certainty that Dr. Pinchot does not possess those skills."

"Who does?"

"Agents in Section Two are taught to kill in this fashion. It's quick and silent."

"Section Two agents, hmm? Isn't _that_ interesting?" Dr. Milton looked up as Gloria, Dr. Pinchot and several other scientists crowded the doorway. "Is there anybody else in the station who works in Section Two, Gloria?"

"Are you kidding? We're all scientists, but I pithed a frog in science class once. Does that count?"

Illya stood up. "This is absurd. I had no dealings with this man since before dinner last night."

Dr. Milton stood directly in front of Illya and glared at him. "Okay, then tell us were you were last night."

"He doesn't have to answer to you!" Dr. Pinchot shot back angrily. "I know he was at the movie last night."

Dr. Milton stared directly into Illya's eyes. "Were you?"

"Yes," Illya replied calmly, but he was troubled that his mind couldn't seem to recall being there.

"What was the movie?"

A cold spike pierced his gut as he realized that he didn't know the answer for certain. _Had it been a Western? Who, then was the star—?_

"You can't answer that, can you? And I think I know why. All you have to do is take a whiff of him and you'll know that he was drunk out of his skull last night."

"Then how could I have murdered Robin Baxter?"

"You weren't even awake, and it took three of us to hold you down. You're a trained killer. An assassin. A trained _Russian_ assassin. Robin probably said something you didn't like."

"I told you, I didn't see Robin last night."

"You don't know what you did last night."

"I know what he did last night," Gloria said suddenly. And, all eyes turned to her. "You took me to the movie, but I didn't like it, so we went to the dining room and you played the guitar for me. After everyone else came up here, we went to my room where you polished off about half of my bottle of vodka. Then you tried to force yourself on me and I kicked you out."

Illya listened to her story, his eyes narrowed. He knew it was a lie, but he didn't have an explanation to put in its place. What he did have was a disquieting realization that he had found the THRUSH infiltrators and they were now in charge of the station and his fate.

"Well?" Dr. Milton said.

"I have no answers for you."

"We're going to give you a chance to come up with some answers. First thing you're going to do is wrap up poor Robin's body and take it to the hanger so it can be stowed for the next flight out. Then, we're going to lock you up in here until we can decide what to do with you."

"This is completely out of line!" Dr. Pinchot blurted out. "He has rights."

"He has nothing, Pinchot. And if you don't want to join him, you'll keep your mouth shut."

Illya looked over at his friend and colleague. "Do as he says, Carl."

"Illya, will you be all right?"

He smiled soberly. "Yes, but it looks like Napoleon is going to have to drink my Christmas present alone this year—"


	4. Act IV: This is the end of the game

**Antarctica Affair**

_Author's notes: The problems of posting parts of a story are somewhat evident here. I tend to come up with a general idea and let the plot grow as I write. Often, I don't know exactly how it will end, or how it will get to the ending, which is what happened in this case. Illya, with his usual efficiency, has needed less time to get to this point than I allotted him, so there are some minor changes in the first act. I apologize; I was just so excited about posting this one, I couldn't wait until it was completely finished. Besides, I really do like cliffhangers. Thanks for the wonderful comments earlier. Hope you like the resolution—WendieZ_

**Act IV: "This is the end of the game."**

Carl Pinchot stole way from the repulsive scene of a disgraced Illya Kuryakin on his knees, wrapping the body of the director in sheets of heavy plastic. The task was performed under the watchful eyes of the entire constituency of the station and his own UNCLE Special was in Lester Milton's hand, pointed at him. Carl hurried down the hallway to his room and secured the door against interruptions. The brass case was exactly where his roommate said it would be. He pulled the inner piece out, set it to Channel D and spoke quickly: "Open Channel D, priority and scramble."

The device was silent for a moment and a male voice responded. "Channel D is open. Mr. Kuryakin?"

"No, this is Dr. Carl Pinchot. I have a message from Mr. Kuryakin. 'Twitter-patted.'"

A moment later, the voice replied again. "Understood. ETA six hours, five minutes. Perth, out." The communicator fell silent and Carl returned it to its hiding place. He fingered the revolver in its calf holster, somewhat relieved that his friend was not completely helpless if his captors did not know of its existence. There were voices in the hallway and when he opened the door, he saw Kuryakin approaching, bearing the weight of the shrouded Robin Baxter. The procession passed and continued towards the airlock to the outside. Carl followed at a discreet distance, pausing at the doorway of the dining room.

Gloria and Dr. Milton allowed Illya to put on the heavy outerwear that would protect him from the cold, then motioned with the agent's gun to proceed with his task. Kuryakin was back inside within twenty minutes, and removed his coat. He was ushered back through the dining room. At the doorway, the blond agent paused and looked inquiringly at his roommate, an expression that his captors would not be able to see from behind him. Carl sighed heavily and looked down at his feet but as his head lowered, he added an almost imperceptible nod. "I'm sorry, Illya. I wish I could help."

"Everything will be all right, Carl. You're not involved." Dr. Pinchot looked up and saw a smile on the Russian's face. "_Spasiba_," he murmured and passed through the doorway.

Dr. Pinchot turned away from the doorway and wandered over to the coffee urn. He was trying to be nonchalant, but equally so, he was in serious need of significant amounts of caffeine to relieve the throbbing in his head. He wondered, not for the first time, how Section Two agents could accept the indignities and injuries associated with this job. Surely mindful of what abuses awaited them courtesy of the sadistic minds of THRUSH would make a normal person question the sanity of deliberately walking into hell. And Kuryakin had just done it again, with a smile on his face and knowing rescue was "only" six hours away.

Illya sat quietly in a chair in Robin's office, his hands handcuffed behind him, while Gloria rifled through his room. Les sat on the desk, examining Illya's gun. "So, this is the UNCLE Special. Doesn't look very special to me."

Kuryakin looked up. "We like it," he said evenly.

"And it shoots those ridiculous mercy bullets. Whose stupid idea was that?"

"Sometimes, I wonder that myself."

"I would have expected you to feel that way."

"Because I'm a blood-minded Russian, right?" There was the tiniest trace of a smile on Illya's lips.

Before Les could wholeheartedly agree with his prisoner, Gloria stormed into the room. "Look at this," the redhead said and extended her palm towards Dr. Milton. "He had their room bugged. And you missed it, Les. Dumb."

Dr. Milton stood. "You missed it, too, super-spy. So, he was on to us from the beginning."

Gloria turned around. "No, idiot. He was on to _you_ from the beginning." She looked into Illya's passive face. "You never would have put yourself in the position you did if you had known about me. Would you?"

Illya looked up into her eyes and the corners of his mouth still turned up in a tiny smirk. "Wouldn't I?"

The green eyes flashed in anger but then she smiled sourly. "You know, you were quite a topic of discussion when I was training under Angelique. Do you want to know what we called you?"

"Not particularly, though I'm sure it was endearing."

Gloria laid her hand on his head. "'Solo's lapdog'." She patted the top of the blond head. "Good boy."

Illya did not change his expression. "Woof—" he whispered, and the smirk broadened, even after she slapped him hard across the cheek.

"Take off his clothes!" She snarled, but she was angrier with herself for letting 'Solo's lapdog' get the better of her. "Underwear, too—I want him naked as the day he was born." She stormed from the room.

Les sighed heavily. "It's not smart to antagonize her."

"Then, I guess it's fortunate for me that _you_ have my gun."

"Where's the other gun?"

"What other gun?"

"I never knew a cop who didn't have a back-up."

"Well, you know one now. It's not standard practice for UNCLE agents."

"Maybe it should be. Unless you guys really like getting caught with your pants down. Like now." He gestured. "Get on your feet."

Illya stood up slowly. "Now who's not being smart?" He locked his stare with the THRUSH doctor's.

"I have the gun, Kuryakin."

Before the final syllable of his name left his adversary's lips, Illya's foot connected with Lester Milton's groin. The man collapsed, curling around his genitals, his mouth open in a silent scream. Kuryakin sat down quickly on the floor and forced his cuffed hands past his feet to the front. "No," he said quietly to the man in a fetal position, "you have _my_ gun and I want it back." He reached into the middle of the tangle of arms and legs to retrieve the semi-automatic. "I'd love to stay and talk 'shop', but I have to see a lady about her bad manners."

The body on the floor was still immersed in vision-dimming pain and made no move to stop him. Illya checked the hallway for unfriendly persons, and seeing none, headed towards the dining room, to stop at his room on the way.

Dr. Pinchot was sitting on his bed when he entered and jumped when the blond agent barged into the room. "Illya! What happened? How—?"

"I don't have time to talk. Where is everyone?"

While Carl answered, Illya pulled his lock pick from a flap of mucosa inside his mouth and began to work on the handcuffs. "Everybody's gone back to their rooms on Gloria's orders. They're afraid of her and she's got a gun."

"I would have been surprised if she didn't. Carl, she has to be stopped. She trained under Angelique LaChien, but she doesn't have the control over her emotions that 'spider-lady' does. Gloria is spiraling out of control." He threw the handcuffs on his bed.

"What are you going to do?"

"If I thought it would help, I'd try reasoning with her. I'm going to have to capture her and keep her locked up." He smiled. "Turning the tables, as it were. Dr. Milton is in Robin's office, a little indisposed at the moment."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get everyone into one room. Barricade the door. And don't let anyone in, unless they use the codeword."

Dr. Pinchot cracked a small smile and nodded. "I understand."

Kuryakin held out his hand. "I need the other gun, too." He stuffed the back-up gun into his waistband. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Dr. Pinchot said, but it was to an empty room.

The Russian agent went to the source. The door to Gloria's room was shut and he pounded loudly on it, hoping she would think it was Les. The door opened slightly and he threw his weight against it to force it fully open. He barged into the room, but stopped short when he saw that the furniture had been rearranged and the occupant, seemingly, had taken refuge between the open door and the wall.

"Come out from behind the door, Gloria. Dr. Milton can't help you now. It's over."

The room was silent.

"I know you're behind there. And I will take you out of here by force if I have to."

Still no sound.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to retain the dignity you denied me, but I won't play the waiting game with you." It was apparent that Gloria was going to try to force him into a confrontation. He decided to leave her in her room, but seal the room somehow to prevent her from escaping. The doors, however, had no locks on them, consistent with an academic community where everyone could trust everyone else and where a closed door was signal enough for privacy to be respected.

He turned to leave the room in search of materials to barricade the doorway when he heard a soft moan from behind the door.

Cautiously, he inched forward. "Gloria, are you hurt?"

There was another moan, which sounded like the vocalization one might make when returning to awareness from being stunned.

Switching his weapon to his left hand, he reached for the doorknob to pull back the door. He moved it slowly, ready for it to suddenly come at him, but it did not, and he pulled it back to reveal Gloria sitting on the floor, knees pulled up and holding her head. "Are you able to stand?" he said quietly with the gun easily visible.

"I thought you were Les," she said looking at Kuryakin's outstretched hand of support.

"I was hoping you would. Stand up, please."

"You always this polite to the enemy?" She grasped his hand and began to raise herself up to her feet.

"Not always." He raised the gun. "You and Dr. Milton will be confined to Robin's office until my reinforcements arrive."

"How did you manage to get a message out?"

Illya smiled. "Trade secret." He motioned with his gun. "Shall we?"

Gloria sighed heavily and took a step forward; the blond agent retreated a step. She suddenly exploded into action, throwing herself at him in a cross between a tackle and a linebacker's block. She had played Illya well; he had relaxed just enough for the attack catch him off his guard. With all of her strength and momentum, she pushed him sideways towards the head of her bed, the metal head railing being just high enough to catch him across the ribs of his left side. There was a searing flash of pain and he cried out audibly, matching the internal cry of his insulted body. His gun flew from his hand and landed on the bed, and he recoiled from the railing to fall on his good side at her feet.

Viciously, she placed the ball of her foot on his injured ribs and pushed him roughly onto his back, smiling with pleasure at the strangled groan it wrenched from her victim. The game isn't over yet, _mon connard russe crédule—_" (my gullible Russian asshole) she spat at the incapacitated man on the floor. "Not by a long shot." She pulled the gun from his waistband, picked up her gun from the table,and left to search for Lester or the rest of the staff, her next action to be determined by who she found first.

Stifling a groan, Illya rolled to his bad side, grasped the bed rail with his right hand and hauled himself to his knees. He hung the arm over the rail while he caught his breath, and tried to ignore the sharp bite in his chest each time his ribcage moved. He could have easily talked himself into hanging there, languishing in his pain, but the cold determination which drove him during times like these, forced him to lift from one knee, then the other, until he stood. He found his gun on the bed and picked it up, feeling its cold, dark metal complete him for the task he had to do.

Stealthily, he crept from the doorway and made a left turn to follow the hallway leading to the dining area. If Gloria and Dr. Milton were going to try to effect an escape attempt using the airplane that was in the hangar, they would have to use the airlock off the dining room. It would be easy to see them in the hangar from the dining room as well, but he would not be able to stop them without being seen. He was inclined to let them escape, and turn the matter over to UNCLE, Perth. Surely, they would not be flying towards the certainty of freedom. THRUSH would soon learn of their failure and would mark them for elimination. The piercing stab of his broken ribs had him wishing fervently for an empty hangar.

The dining room was deserted, and there was no evidence that anyone had been through the airlock since his little foray earlier. The plane still sat in the hangar and if he looked carefully, he could see Robin's plastic-wrapped body. So, be it, his pragmatic nature decided.

He would check the hallway to the recreation room, and the matter would be settled

The director's office was the first room and where he had escaped from Lester Milton with his well-placed kick. The door was open and the doctor was gone, implying that the man had recovered well enough to walk upright. He moved quietly towards the next room and the first closed door. He laid a drinking glass against the door and listened carefully. He remained at the door for a long time, knowing that it was very difficult to be absolutely silent for an extended length of time. Sooner or later, there would be a noise. He remained at each door for what he

estimated as five minutes before moving to the next, with the exception of his own room, where Dr. Pinchot had gathered the rest of the staff.

As he approached the recreation room, he heard the sound of furniture moving. So, it appeared that they were hoping to barricade themselves in the largest room of the station, but for what? he wondered. A last show-down? Kuryakin smiled to himself; just like the Clint Eastwood movie Gloria had found so incredibly boring. He heard Dr. Milton's angry words complaining to his cohort about her choice of rooms. "At least with the dining room we could've gotten to the plane. We could've gone to one of the other stations!"

_Yes_, Illya thought with amusement. _Both Vostok and Mirny are just a few hundred miles away._ _The Soviets would welcome your altruistic attitudes_.

The argument continued, growing more heated until Kuryakin heard the sound of a flat-handed slap on flesh. It was followed by a string of vulgar insults from both parties and then Lester snarled, "Give me that gun of Kuryakin's. I'm going to find him and settle this." Footsteps approached, but Illya quickly ducked into the nearest room and closed the door. After the hallway was quiet again, he returned to his former place near the doorway to the rec-room.

She had her back to him, obviously confident that nothing would have been missed by her partner, so Illya slipped into the room and hid behind the nearby ping-pong table. She was still moving furniture as he approached, ready to catch her unawares. He grabbed the back of her belt in a tight right-handed grip, while his Special in the left, pressed against the very ribs which throbbed in his own chest. She gasped loudly.

"Throw down the weapon and put your hands on your head. _This_ is the end of the game."

Gloria pulled the gun from her waistband, but instead of dropping it, she thrust it down to her side, the barrel pointing behind her and pulled the trigger. Hot metal tore into Kuryakin's thigh. The Russian agent screamed from the exquisite pain that flashed up to his skull and down to his feet. He staggered backwards on the injured limb and the bone snapped with an audible crack. Another cry erupted from his throat and he hit the floor, moaning.

Through an increasing grey-red haze, he saw Gloria turn towards him, the gun raising. His own gun had hit the floor several feet behind him, and he pushed frantically with his good left leg across the floor towards it. His good right hand grabbed it and he met Gloria's challenge with his own, as he continued to back away from her in hopes of finding some cover. His shoulder hit the top of an overturned table, but by now, he was too weak to struggle around it. He raised his gun, his arm trembled visibly from hand to shoulder not only from the effort, but the almost unbearable agony of the newly-fractured femur, and the fire across his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

"_Now_ you're right, you UNCLE pig. Watch how the game ends—"

The haze now obscured his vision, but in his mind's eye, he saw the flash of the gun; the last thing he heard was the thunder of the gunpowder exploding. Then, it was all blackness and silent.

Dr. Lester Milton walked around the table where the Russian lay slouched against the table top, and went to the red-headed corpse sprawled on the tiled floor. The face bore an astonished expression, the green eyes wide and staring. On her forehead, a dark crimson pit of blood revealed the cause of her astonishment. The gun in his hand, still hot from the discharge, fell from his hand and hit the floor within what would have been her range of vision. Dr. Milton heard a throaty moan from behind him, went back to the still-living body of the UNCLE agent and knelt down.

Illya awoke with a raspy intake of breath and his face twisted into a contortion plainly conveying his level of pain. He pressed his left forearm against his broken ribs, supporting them as he held his breath to easing the burning. Numbly, he tried to scan the room without moving, and immediately his gaze fell upon the body of a young woman with bright red hair, green eyes that stared back at him, and bullet hole in her forehead. A puddle of clotting blood pooled under her head and matted her hair. There was little question that she was dead.

He looked down at his lap and his legs splayed out in front of him. More crimson under his right leg caught his attention and he saw a ragged hole in fabric of his black jeans. Beside his leg, his Special lay in his loosened grasp. He looked at the dead woman again and for some reason he couldn't fathom, he felt grief.

He sensed another person beside him and raised his weapon in a shaky grip. "So, Mr. Kuryakin," the person said. Illya looked up, resignation in his face and his gun arm dropped to the floor. "Looks like Waverly's pet _Russkie_ has really put his foot in it this time."

Kuryakin made a noise in his throat and his head began to lower to his shoulder.

"Oh, no, you don't," Dr. Milton said, lifting the injured man's chin. "You need to hang on so you can help me get you to the clinic. I'm not carrying your Russian ass." He put his arm around Illya's waist to lift him, unaware that the injury there was not bruised, but broken ribs. As soon as pressure was applied, the blond agent let out a scream and his hands clawed the doctor's shirt, grabbing tight fistfuls. The Russian's face suddenly went ashen and he fell forward into Les' arms, unconscious.

"Damn," the doctor growled and lowered Kuryakin's body to the floor. "What just happened here?" he asked himself. Gingerly, he palpated the chest and sputtered an oath. A broken rib must have punctured the pleural membranes, destroying the vacuum, resulting in a pneumothorax. He laid his ear against the injured side. Lack of breath sounds confirmed his suspicion. Suddenly, this was not an enemy UNCLE agent, or a Russian son-of-a-bitch he held in his arms; he was a gravely injured patient who would die if he didn't try everything he could to stabilize him until the UNCLE plain arrived.

For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Dr. Milton had a purpose to his life and that knowledge burned like a fire in his being. With a new clarity of thought, he ran to his clinic for the two items he needed to transport Kuryakin: a sheet and the oxygen cylinder. He fitted the oxygen mask over his patient's nose and mouth and maneuvered the body carefully onto the sheet. He tied a large knot at the bottom forming a papoose-like sling and dragged the body back to the clinic. Then, the real work began.

Many times in his career, Kuryakin had passed through the sensory void toward the twilight dream world of returning consciousness. Most of the time, waking up was waking into pain, despite the drugs meant to blunt the sensation. He had learned early on that pain was not necessarily a bad thing, for pain told you that you were still alive. And God, was he ever alive now—

He was trying to solve the elusive puzzle of how to coax his eyes open when a familiar, but unwelcome voice spoke to him. "How's the pain?" it said with uncharacteristic sympathy.

The voice was enough of a distraction from his discomfort that he was able to half-open his eyelids. His vision had a soft, slightly out-of-focus quality to it that blinking didn't seem to be able to clear. He didn't need clear vision to know that he had not come back to himself under the best of circumstances.

"I can give you some more morphine if you need it," the voice of Dr. Milton told him.

Illya narrowed his eyes in disbelief and he shook his head; he didn't want anything from this man.

"I know you trust me about as far as you can throw me at the moment, but I want you to know, that I'm going to do everything I can to keep you stabilized until your reinforcements get here."

Kuryakin reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from his face.

"You really shouldn't do that," the doctor said.

"Gloria—" he whispered weakly.

Dr. Milton took a deep breath. "Gloria's dead."

Illya's lips moved but producing sound was difficult.

The question anticipated was answered. "_I_ killed her. You were barely conscious."

"Confused—"

"Join the club," the doctor admitted.

His immediate curiosity satisfied, Kuryakin carefully began to explore his injuries. His right hand felt his ribs, his fingers brushing the chest tube.

Immediately, Dr. Milton reached for the hand. "Don't pull on that. Your lung collapsed when I tried to get you up. I didn't know you had rib fractures. The chest tube will help re-inflate the lung." When Illya's hand moved to his leg, he did grasp it at the wrist. "Stop right there. You'll undo all my hard work."

"Tell me—"

"When Gloria shot you in the leg, the bullet hit the bone. You must have put weight on your leg, which finished the work of the bullet. You have pretty badly splintered compound fracture. I've put the leg in traction and reduced the fracture as best I could. You need a hospital as soon as possible."

"Everyone else—all right?"

"I don't know where they are." Dr. Milton reached for the oxygen mask. "You need this back on. You're becoming cyanotic."

"My room—tell them.'Twitter-pated'."

"Twitter—_what_?"

Illya nodded his head, a faint smile on his blue-tinged lips and closed his eyes, spent. The doctor readjusted the oxygen mask, checked the vitals and went to release the rest of the staff members.

Dr. Pinchot and the other scientists were more than ready to beat Lester Milton to a pulp when they discovered that the UNCLE agent who had been sent to them for their protection now lay on an infirmary bed in serious condition. That the same UNCLE agent had freely given him the code word was only the argument that diffused the situation. Carl Pinchot sat beside Kuryakin's bed and marveled again at the dedication and courage that were the hallmarks of the men and women in Section Two.

He went back to his room and heard a two-toned warble, characteristic of the Section Two communicators. He dug the instrument out form under the mattress and turned it to Channel D. "Channel D is open."

"Illya?" Napoleon voice responded.

"Napoleon, this is Carl Pinchot. Illya's not able to answer, he's been seriously injured."

"Damn—" the CEO whispered. "I don't know why, but I've had a bad feeling about this ever since we got your first message. We're about two hours out yet. What's the situation?"

"It's secure now. There were two infiltrators; one has been killed. There's also another casualty, the director of the station."

"The other infiltrator is in custody, I presume?"

"Actually, the other THRUSH, who happens to be the station's doctor, would like to talk to you about quitting his old employer, keeping in mind that saving Illya's life is a point in his favor."

"I think we can accommodate him; for a price."

"He says that Illya needs to be taken to the hospital as soon as possible."

"We'll see that Mr. Kuryakin is well cared for, Dr. Pinchot. Solo, out."

Dr. Pinchot was waiting for the passengers of the airplane just inside the airlock. "Welcome to NULL station, Napoleon," he said, extending his hand.

"Thanks, Carl. If you would brief the team about what happened here, I'd like to look in on Illya."

"He was resting fairly comfortably the last time I checked. He's back that way." Carl pointed. "Turn left."

Solo hurried across the dining room to the hallway indicated. He stopped at the doorway and Dr. Milton looked up. "Mr. Solo," he said, standing.

Napoleon came into the room and looked down at his partner who lay sleeping with the oxygen mask in place. He always hated to see his friend in this state: pale as the sheets he lay on, and the only outward sign that he was alive was the rise and fall of the sheet that marked his breathing. "What are we looking at here?" he said softly.

"Three broken ribs on the left, one of them caused a pneumothorax. I've got a chest tube in to help re-inflate the lung. Gunshot to right thigh, about mid-way. Compound fracture of the femur. He's lucky, no major blood vessels involved; otherwise he would have bled out. I've done a temporary reduction, packed the wound, and the leg's in traction. He'll need surgery for that as soon as possible."

Napoleon sat down on the chair vacated by the doctor and laid his hand across his friend's forehead. "He feels warm."

"Slight fever, probably from the trauma."

Solo removed his hand and saw a pair of unfocused cornflower blue eyes gaze back at him. "Didn't I tell you not to go outside without your hat and mittens? What am I going to do with you?"

The mask muffled the Russian's answer until Napoleon pulled it away from his mouth. "Say again, Illya."

A pinched look crossed Illya's pale features and the blond head rolled back and forth. "I couldn't do it, Napoleon—" the lips whispered.

Solo looked up at the doctor. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Gloria, my partner in all this. She's the one who did this to him. They were facing off, but he was one the floor, bleeding, in shock. He could barely hold his gun up. She was crazy. She was going to shoot him in the groin. So, I killed her."

Napoleon looked down at his partner again. The lips were still moving, but there was no volume. "Hey, _tovarisch_, you're too much of a gentleman. It's okay, do you hear?"

Illya closed his eyes unable to fight the morphine and his own weaken condition.

"Why are his lips are turning blue?"

"Put the O2 mask back on him," Dr. Milton pointed and Napoleon readjusted the mask.

"He lost more than a little blood and he's only working on one lung. We really need to get him on the plane."

"I've got to stay here to secure the place. Will you stay with him?"

"You sure about this? I'm THRUSH."

"That's funny, you act like 'doctor' to me. I'm going to radio Perth HQ and give them the head's up. It'll be up to them to decide what to do. I suspect they'll want to talk to you at length."

"Just as long as you don't execute me."

"Is that the line they're feeding you these days?"

"They can be very persuasive."

"So can we, except we prefer to use the truth. I can't say you'd be able to work for UNCLE, but you'll keep your head and your medical license. Oh, but you won't be able to go back to THRUSH."

"I think I can live with that."

"So how are we going to transport one slightly-used Russian out to the plane and then, on the plane for six hours without breaking him further?"

"We have an old dog sled we don't use anymore since we got the snowmobiles. I think it'll be perfect."

An hour later, Kuryakin had been secured on the sled and was being pushed out to the waiting airplane. The remaining staff of scientists was also told to go for the Christmas holiday.

Dr. Pinchot would remain behind with Napoleon and his team to finish the upgrade work. As much as Napoleon wanted to be on the plane with his partner, his position as the leader of the team had to take precedence. But, he watched the plane bearing his friend until it disappeared from sight.

**Epilogue:**

_Three days later, UNCLE Headquarters, Perth, Australia_

Dr. Carl Pinchot and Napoleon made a beeline for the Medical Section as soon as they arrived at UNCLE headquarters. The Perth office had been updating Illya's medical condition via communicator so both men were relieved to know that they would be seeing a much improved Section Two agent. They entered Illya's room and found him sleeping soundly.

Solo stood at his friend's bedside. "I was expecting to see him sitting up in bed, steaming, because they wouldn't discharge him."

"That would have been just a little optimistic," a voice from a chair opposite the bed said. Dr. Milton stood up and greeted the two men.

"How is he doing? The reports didn't go into much detail, but I was under the impression that he was doing all right."

"He is, when you consider what needed to be done. The orthopedic surgeon set the leg with a long rod called an intramedullary nail, which is inserted through the shaft of the femur and stabilized with external screws. It's going to make the femur much stronger and more stable in the long run. There was some infection of the fracture wound that needed to be dealt with and they re-inflated his left lung. Quite a lot for just a few days."

"And you've been here all this time?" Dr. Pinchot asked.

"Yeah, they were nice enough to let me sit with him. There was a lot of initial pain."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd go out of your way for him because of his nationality." Carl looked up at Solo to explain. "He was nothing short of hostile to Illya from the moment we arrived." Then he turned back to Dr. Milton. "Why the change of heart?"

Dr. Milton shrugged. "I guess Gloria just brought out the 'best' in me. She had a way of doing that. She was indoctrinated into it by that THRUSH bitch she trained under."

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Which THRUSH bitch are we talking about?"

"Angelique LaChien," Carl answered. "Illya told me, but he thought Gloria was also mentally unstable."

Solo smiled. "My, my, what a small world it is." He motioned to his two companions. "Since Mr. Kuryakin is apparently not ready for visitors, why don't we adjourn to the nearest pub and you can tell me all about Gloria and whether or not she brought out the best in _him_." And he pointed to the occupant of the bed.

_Two days later_

Napoleon could tell that his partner was on the mend. The Russian had become testy and the nursing staff was ready to have his meds changed to twenty-four hour sedation. Kuryakin was sitting up in bed, but was not allowed to get out of bed for any reason.

"They won't even let me hop on one leg to use the loo!" he complained.

Solo always found it amusing to hear his partner speak British colloquialisms with a blended Russian accent. "Well, then one of the nurses would have to watch to make sure you don't fall over." He grinned.

"It's demeaning! Napoleon, would you stop enjoying my misery?"

"Far be it for me to laugh at your misfortune, my friend."

"That's not the half of it! They want to keep me here for two months of rehab! First, I won't need two months and second, I don't want to do it here!"

"So what would you like me to do, Illya?"

"Perhaps you could persuade them, _in_ your usual charming way, to let me go back to New York next week. I'd much prefer to be around familiar surroundings. Better for the healing process."

"Well, there's Dr. Milton."

"He doesn't have practicing rights in this facility. They haven't exactly decided what to do with him anyway."

"But I'm sure he'd come to see you everyday."

Illya narrowed his eyes at his partner. "You're not angry that I didn't tell you about this mission, are you? Because I was under orders and if you _are_, you need to take that up with the Old Man."

"No, I'm pretty much okay with that. It's happened before."

"So, why am I getting the hard sell with you?"

"It's not the hard sell. I was just interested in a little matter in this affair that I know you won't be putting in your report."

Illya looked at him quizzically for a moment, then his expression turned sour. "You've been talking to Carl—" He slapped the table with his palm. "_Proklyatiye! Chyert voz'mi!_ He gave me his _word_ that he would keep it between us—"

Napoleon leaned forward. "Cool down, my friend. Before you go off and have the poor guy roasted, it wasn't Carl."

"It was Milton, then. Oh, yeah, that makes sense; you can't rehabilitate a THRUSH—"

"Actually, he was concerned."

"About what?"

"Well, you seemed rather distraught that you weren't able to pull the trigger when it meant killing a woman. That you're too sentimental or something."

"Oh, well—I don't know that distraught would be the correct word. I was, after all, practically unconscious at the time. So, no, I wasn't upset." He looked away from his partner to hide the embarrassed flush he could feel rising from his neck.

Solo bent over to catch the Russian's eye. "What's wrong, Illya? What did _you_ think I was talking about?" And he grinned widely.

_Finis_


	5. Minisequel 1

**How Napoleon Found Out Illya's Secret**

**and **

**Dr. Pinchot Was ****Not ****Transferred to the Bomb-diffusion Unit**

**By**

**WendieZ**

_Author's notes: This is a short, fun, little sequel to __The Antarctica Affair__, which you will really need to read, otherwise, this will not make much sense to you. It answers the one little question at the end of that story. Thanks for reading—WendieZ_

"_**What did **__**you**__** think I was talking about?" **_

_Manipulated again!_ Kuryakin thought with disgust. He knew his partner's propensity for wheedling information from people. Yet, here he was again, painted into a corner and Solo was holding the paintbrush. There was no telling how his partner would use his secret to blackmail him into doing a job that Solo didn't want to do. Perhaps if he refused to make eye contact, Napoleon would just give up. _No_, he chastised himself for even considering it. It would only confirm that there was a secret to be known. He looked up at his partner.

"I don't know. I'm still a little disoriented from all the drugs and surgery."

"You're flushed. Are you running a fever?" Napoleon reached out to feel his partner's forehead, but had his hand batted away. "My, we're bad-tempered this morning. I guess it's a good thing Dr. Pinchot went back to NULL to finish up. You sound like you might have taken off his head if he was here. Are you going to tell me what's festering in you or do I let you spend Christmas _and_ New Year's _and_ January _and_—?"

"All right! All right! Enough!" the Russian growled at him. "Sometimes, you are the _bane_ of my existence!"

Napoleon sat back in his chair and regarded his partner sympathetically. "She really got to you, didn't she?" The look on Kuryakin's face told him what he needed to know, but he also knew that his partner needed something from him as well: sincerity.

"First, I want to know who told you," Illya said angrily.

"Carl has kept his word to you. Please don't put him in bomb-diffusion. Dr. Milton merely told me that Gloria's mentor was Angelique. I figured the rest out on my own."

"I have never felt so—inept in my life." The Russian accent seemed a little more pronounced as he lowered the walls and invited his friend to an infrequent glimpse into his soul.

"You shouldn't. Knowing your opinion of my relationship with Angelique, I'm somewhat surprised that you would consider 'sleeping with the enemy', as it were."

"I didn't suspect that she was until after I had done so. Women don't generally have to drug a man to get them to sleep with them."

Napoleon smiled knowingly. "Don't they? Alcohol is, after all, a drug."

"I wasn't drunk when she seduced me, but I realized afterward, that I _was_ drugged. A nerve stimulant."

"So, was it _fun_?"

"Napoleon!" he exclaimed, somewhat aghast, then he remembered that he was talking to his _zadushevny_ (confidant—see the story about Illya not liking bats). He lowered his head and nodded. "It was—" He sighed "—incredible. I told Carl I was v_nye syebya ot radosti_."

Napoleon chuckled. "So, that's how you came up with the code word 'twitter-pated'."

"Carl's made-up word, from the Disney cartoon."

"I'll have to take you to see it the next time it comes out."

"You needn't bother. I already read the book."

"In the original German, too, I imagine."

"Of course. But, I must tell you that physical reaction aside. I didn't like the feeling of being disengaged from my mind. I never have."

"Nor do I, but you don't always have a choice, depending on the truth serum they pump into you."

"Truth serum doesn't turn you into a rutting bull elk."

"Point taken. But you went back to her knowing—"

"Suspecting," Illya corrected.

"Okay, _suspecting_ she was the enemy, and prepared to let her seduce you again."

"Not exactly. I intended to relieve her of her potion and I did, but I never considered that she might have a larger arsenal."

"What happened?"

"She darted me! That's what happened." He folded his arms in self-depreciation. "How could I have been so stupid? K_ryetin!_ _Idiot! Durak_!" he growled between his teeth.

"I think you're being a little hard on yourself. All men are fools when it comes to women, and especially me. That's why they make such perfect assassins. It's why Angelique and Serena, and all those other THRUSH lovelies are so successful."

The blond Russian huffed and adjusted his folded arms. "Well, I don't have to tell you how I feel about Angelique."

"No, I think all of UNCLE knows how you feel about her. Like I told you before when you told me you couldn't kill Gloria. You're too much of a gentleman, no, let's use another word: noble. You may be a citizen of a country which is bellowing about annihilating my country—"

"Mostly hot air, xenophobia, and a lot of poor communication—"

"—On both sides. Now, will you let me finish? Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, you are a Russian, sorry, Ukrainian, a Soviet, an atheist, a member of the GRU and possibly KGB, but I can't confirm that. But, you are one of the most morally noble people I've ever known."

"Well, don't let that little tidbit get out or you'll really ruin my reputation. But I think I've come to the conclusion that I must, perhaps be a little more, how should I say—?"

"Cautious? Discriminating?"

"Perhaps. Though, now that I really think about it, she came onto me first."

"I keep telling you, it's those sexy, doleful blue eyes that gets them."

"Ridiculous."

"Well, the blond hair and the accent don't hurt either." Solo stood. "Aren't you glad you got this out in the open?"

Illya shook his head. "I'm not so sure. I think all I've managed to do is eliminate a subject for which I can deride you."

Napoleon smiled. "There will always be my bourgeois lifestyle, my friend, because you will never let yourself become that depraved. I'm going to go and charm the doctor. Rest easy. We'll be drinking vodka on Christmas Eve in New York, I promise."

_Finis_


	6. Minisequel 2

**Roller Coaster**

**By WendieZ**

_ Authors notes: This is the final sequel of T__he Antarctica Affair__. In life, we ride a roller coaster between joy and sorrow. UNCLE agents ride the roller coaster with out a seatbelt and standing on the seat._

**Part 1: "When Egos Collide"**

_UNCLE headquarters, New York, mid-March 1968_

Napoleon Solo walked into the locker room of the gym and found his partner already dressed in work-out clothes and waiting, stretched out full-length on a bench near their assigned lockers.

"You're late," Kuryakin said, but did not lift his head.

"Sorry. Wanda brought in a stack of memos and what-not from the Old Man and we got to chatting and—you know."

Illya sat up. "Indeed I do. Sometimes, I wonder if this is UNCLE headquarters or Hugh Hefner's mansion."

Solo was in the middle of slipping off his dress shirt and stopped to look down at his partner. "Oh, now that's a low blow, Illya. Besides, isn't this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?"

"I knew you were going to say something like that, so I'm not going to show the least bit of restraint on you today."

"All-out war, huh? Well, since you put it that way, all bets are off for me, too. Russian against American."

"You're not going nationalistic on me, are you? Because if you are, it's _Ukrainian_ against American."

"Perhaps you'd like to put down a small wager. You know, your money where your mouth is?"

"Who's going to decide who wins?"

"We'll let the guys that are already there decide."

"That's hardly fair. You're their boss."

"Yeah, but they know you're coming back from two months down-time. They're going to be sympathetic to you."

"I don't need their sympathy to beat you. If I win, I pick the restaurant, you pay, and you do your own paperwork for the next three missions."

"All right, hot shot. If I win, _I_ pick the restaurant _and _the dates we take, and you pay for all of us."

"Make it the next five missions and you have a deal." Illya stood up and flashed his famous wolfish grin. "You are so going to be hurting," he taunted. He swung his leg over the bench and strode out of the locker room.

Solo called after him. "In your dreams, Kuryakin."

Two hours later, the pair rode the elevator up from Medical. Napoleon leaned on his cane. "God, Illya, I can't believe you broke my ankle. _And_ half my fingers!"

"I can't believe you dislocated my shoulder. Didn't you hear me say 'release'?"

"You said it in Russian! I thought you were swearing at me until you jammed your heel into my ankle and yelled at me, and then I wasn't sure."

"The audible tearing of the ligaments might have been a give-away." The Russian hugged his shoulder. "Mr. Waverly isn't going to be happy with us."

"Yeah, all of a sudden I got an image of NULL station in my mind."

Illya looked up at him, a hint of despair in his eyes. "You don't think he'd actually send us down there, do you?"

"Not you. You didn't come back from there in very good condition. But you did find the leak. He should take that into consideration."

"You went down and rescued me."

"Somehow, that doesn't seem to carry the same weight. Maybe I should put in for vacation."

"That's the last thing I need. I just got field-certified again."

"Then, I uncertified you."

"Well, I uncertified you, too."

Solo shook his head. "Waverly is going to be pissed."

"Maybe we can hide in our offices for a while."

"Yeah, since you broke my fingers, you're going to have to do the reports."

"Why do I suddenly feel like we both lost?"

Solo held the elevator door open for them to hobble through. "Because we did both lose, my friend."

Half an hour later, Solo left his office to see Illya approaching apparently headed in the same direction he was. "Waverly?"

The Russian nodded. "The grapevine is operating very efficiently today."

"I feel like a little kid who's just been sent to the principal."

"Or the firing squad," Illya added gloomily.

The door to Waverly's office loomed before them like an insurmountable obstacle. "Well, I guess there's not putting it off. Come on."

"You first. I want to gauge his mood."

"Why, so you can turn tail and run, to leave holding the bag?"

"Something like that."

"We go in together."

Illya sighed. "Pulling rank again. 'Into the valley of death—'"

"Shut up, Illya."

_**Part 2: "**_**The Exoneration of Dr. Lester Milton"**

_Napoleon had been much more accepting of Dr. Milton's defection from THRUSH than Illya; understandable, considering their initial meeting and his actions after Gloria darted him. But, people can change. Even if the change seems instantaneous, it can be the result of a long period of doubt about beliefs once held sacred, followed by that moment when they realize who they really are—a.k.a. an epiphany. However, it can take a lot for the changed person to convince those he hurt that he is truly changed._

"You wanted to see us, sir?" Solo said, trying not to let the image of Waverly as principal affect his voice.

The head of UNCLE, New York glanced up, but seemed to ignore the less-than-pristine condition of the two agents before him. ""Sit down, gentlemen." After they were seated, he picked up a piece of paper. "I received this communiqué earlier this morning. As you know, the situation in Vietnam, while worrying, is not in our jurisdiction until we are asked to intervene. I'm sure you are aware of the recent Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army initiative on January thirty-first."

"The Tet Offensive, I believe it's being called," Illya said softly. "Not the success they had hoped for, I understand."

"It may be a turning point in that conflict in favor of the US and allied forces. That still remains to be seen."

"What does the Tet Offensive have to do with us, sir?" Napoleon asked.

"The campaign itself, nothing. I have been receiving reports of the conflict in Southeast Asia since World War II and the French troops there. From both sides."

"_Both sides_? How did you manage that?"

Waverly's face was bland. "I asked," he said. "UNCLE's political neutrality is almost as well-accepted as that of Switzerland. And since the winners write the history, I felt history could use an advocate for the defeated's point of view. But back to the reason I called you here.

"The report I received mentions a Dr. Lester Milton. He featured prominently in your report on the leak at NULL station, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Yes, sir," Illya replied. "He was one of the infiltrators who later asked to be protected if he defected from THRUSH. I was not part of those negotiations. As a matter of fact, I was dubious of his sincerity."

"He saved your life, Illya. That should count for something," Solo countered, annoyed.

"He's a narrow-minded bigot."

"Okay, he's not Mr. Personality, but neither are you."

"Gentlemen, if you will let me finish," Waverly's voice cut across their bickering, and silenced both of them.

"As I was saying, this report mentions Dr. Milton. He was debriefed extensively by Section One and his information was of some help. His posting undercover to NULL by THRUSH was, in actuality, a disciplinary action by them. He was questioning THRUSH policy a little too openly."

"Strange that they didn't just kill him outright," Illya mused aloud.

"He had some notoriety when he saved the life of a member of Central. Perhaps they thought it would be bad for morale to kill him outright."

"So, he didn't exactly have a Thrush tattooed on his chest, then." Solo said, frowning a little at his partner.

"So it seems. After debriefing, Dr. Milton requested that he be given the opportunity to, how shall we say, atone for his THRUSH misdeeds, by being posted to a MASH unit in Vietnam. UNCLE was able to have him commissioned as a Captain in the Army. This report states that Dr. Lester Milton, captain, was killed serving his MASH unit during early days of the Tet Offensive. He had been helping wounded American, as well as North Vietnamese civilians and soldiers when a shell hit the hospital building." He passed the paper to Illya, who quickly read the report and passed it to Solo.

While Napoleon read, he heard his partner murmur," Apology accepted, Dr. Milton." He looked up, but the Russian's gaze was averted, inward. He returned the paper to his superior. "I think this might be a good time to take some of my vacation time."

Waverly looked up at his CEA. "My thoughts exactly, Mr. Solo. I'm due for a vacation and I promised the missus I wouldn't put it off like I usually end up doing. You will, of course, Mr. Solo will run the shop while I'm gone." He stood up, prompting his subordinates to do likewise.

"Mr. Kuryakin, you will act as CEA while Mr. Solo is filling in for me." He looked sharply at both of them. "And the next time you two act like schoolboys on the playground, beating each other into misshapen lumps of flesh, I will assign you _both _to Medical where you can clean out bed pans and give enemas. Do I make myself clear?

There was a simultaneous pair of "yes, sir's" and the two chastised agents sulked from the room. Outside, in the hallway, they hastened to the elevator. "So," Napoleon said as they waited for the doors to open, "Has Dr. Milton been exonerated in your eyes?"

The doors opened but Illya did not move. "I still don't believe people can change overnight. But, Dr. Milton was certainly heading in the right direction."

_finis_


End file.
